Treasure
by terrified
Summary: A Sherlolly one-shot. Inspired by a post on tumblr. Sherlock discovers Molly discarded the dress she had worn that Christmas evening and proceeds to make things right.


_**A/N:** Inspired by a sherlollythoughtoftheday post on tumblr and dedicated to moriartystigress on tumblr. :) Sleep deprivation is always worth it for Sherlolly! Hope you'll enjoy this rather long one-shot, but for now, goodnight from me! xx _

* * *

**Treasure**

"Can I help you gentlemen? " The kind old man at the counter asked. There came no answer from Sherlock Holmes, as was expected. The detective had simply burst through the shop entrance, nearly knocking over a tall rack of assorted hats and scarves. Thankfully, the rack had not fallen and John Watson had answered on their behalf.

"We're just uh...browsing," said John with a polite smile, "Gifts, that's right. Birthday gifts."  
"Well, you've come to the right place then," the old man remarked with a smile. "Lots of treasure to be found here. And all for a good cause too."

A recent case had led the two men to a nearby charity shop that sold various hand-me-downs and secondhand items. The old man who owned it was not exaggerating when he used the word _treasure_. Every nook and cranny in the shop was filled with a vintage beauty of some kind. There was an exquisite porcelain teapot, an intricately carved marble chess set, and even a good old umbrella with its deep mahogany crook handle.

"Any luck?" John asked as he sidled up to the frowning detective.  
"It's a very tiny trinket, difficult to find but certainly not impossible," murmured Sherlock as his sharp eyes scanned the various shelves and cases in the shop.  
"Not impossible...right," John said with a sigh, resigning to a long day ahead.

The two men scoured the shop, searching high and low for what would be a key piece of evidence for their current case when suddenly, Sherlock stopped short in front of three clothes mannequins.

"What's the matter?" John asked, coming to stand beside him. He peered at the three mannequins before them, each of which was wearing a dress that had been ornately accessorised with various scarves and long, beaded necklaces.

"Don't you recognise it?" Sherlock asked quietly, staring hard at the mannequin in the middle.  
"I don't have a mind like yours," laughed John, "So no, I don't."  
"Exactly. A mind like mine. So isn't it odd, then?" the detective continued, almost murmuring to himself.  
"No, it isn't," John remarked, puzzled, "You remember everything."  
"But I _shouldn't_ ," Sherlock replied, "I shouldn't remember _this_."  
"This?" asked John.  
"An object of sentimental value… How did it get in my head?" Sherlock remarked quietly.

John's brows knitted into a confused frown as he now turned from studying the mannequin to studying the detective. He saw how Sherlock seemed to be biting on the insides of his cheek. Sherlock was tense – troubled, almost. What had disturbed him so suddenly?

"Christmas…" Sherlock whispered.  
"Sorry?"  
"Where's your phone?" he asked, turning suddenly to John.  
"Here…" answered John, reaching into his trouser pocket for it, "What do you want with it?"  
"Do you mind if I…" Sherlock said whilst reaching to grab the phone from John's hands, "…took a look at your photos…"  
"Help yourself," John replied, raising an eyebrow, "Well, you have already, anyway…"

The speed with which Sherlock flicked through John's photos on his mobile phone's camera roll was so fast that it rendered his musician's fingers a blur.

"Why do you have so many photos?" Sherlock muttered, gritting his teeth slightly  
"Because I don't have a brain like yours," answered John, who had folded his arms and was simply watching his friend continue to swipe at his mobile phone as though his life had depended on it.

Then, the blur of his fingers swam clearly back into view as he stopped moving them, having found the photo he was looking for. John inched over to peer at what it was that Sherlock had found. It made him raise an eyebrow again. Why was Sherlock Holmes staring so intently at a group photo taken at last year's Christmas party?

"Do you see it now?" Sherlock asked, not once averting his eyes from the screen.

At first, John saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was a casual photo, taken by his girlfriend at the time, of Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg and himself at the Baker Street Christmas do. Sherlock had left the party by then and had waltzed out of Baker Street. Even if he had been there, he would probably not have been in the photo anyway. It had been an awkward evening, which explained the rather strained smile on Molly's face, the tired one on Greg's and his and Mrs Hudson's own _let's-try-and pretend-nothing's-happened_ forced grins.

It was then that John saw what the detective had seen. By then, Sherlock had stopped looking at the photo and was looking back up at the mannequin in front of him, the mannequin that had on the exact same dress that had been Molly Hooper's that Christmas evening.

"Come on, Sherlock, it doesn't _necessarily_ belong to h—"  
"Wrong," Sherlock cut in.  
"How could you _possibly_ …"  
"I recognise the slight tarnish on some of the crystals here…" he cut in again, pointing to the sparkling straps on the dress. "I noticed it then, I recognise it now."

John did not want to argue. Clearly, this dress had triggered a reaction in the detective. What sort of reaction it was, John was not entirely sure, but he knew it was big enough to have caused Sherlock to completely forget the case at hand.

"So, what now?" asked John.

In what seemed like oddly good timing, the old man who ran the shop had come to check on what were his only two customers that afternoon.

"I see you've found something," he said, cheerfully, pushing past the two men as he moved towards the mannequin. "It was a lovely girl who brought it to me. And the day after Christmas too. Didn't ask for a dime. Simply told me to take it."

John glanced over at his friend, who now swallowed hard and looked like he wished the old man had not spoken. He was just about to try and help change the subject when the detective spoke first.

"What was she like, this girl?" he asked softly.  
"Chocolate brown hair, the sweetest smile but I could tell she'd had hardly any sleep and quite possibly had a good cry the night before," the old man recalled with a shrug, "Here, let's get it off the mannequin so you can have a better look—"  
"I'll buy it," interrupted Sherlock.

* * *

When Molly opened her locker door after a long day's work at Bart's, she was surprised to see a package there that she knew clearly had not been there before. She swung the door back and peered at its keyhole carefully. Sherlock had once taught her not just _how_ to pick locks but how to _see_ if a lock had previously been picked or not. All the signs pointed to it having been picked, and she was quite sure she knew whom it had been.

Carefully, she removed the package, the soft rustle of its paper the only sound in the still, silent locker room. There seemed to be a small note attached to it. She recognised it as stationery from her own desk. Molly was absolutely sure who had broken into her locker now. She paused for a moment, unsure whether to read the note first or to see what was beneath all that crinkly paper.

"Let's see what it is," she whispered to herself, setting the note aside.

When the silvery crystals of a familiar dress peeked out from underneath the torn wrapping, Molly swept it off her lap and moved to grab the note.

 _Dinner?  
If yes, Baker Street, 8pm.  
If not, your flat, 8pm._

 _\- SH_

"Idiot," she murmured, resenting the small smile that threatened to play on her lips.

* * *

It was 7.45 PM but Molly liked to be early. She wondered if she should have brought something, but decided against it in the end. When she finally stepped into the open door into his flat at Baker Street, the detective turned from where he stood by the window and gave her a quick smile, only for it to turn into a frown.

"Why aren't you wearing the dress?' he asked, slowly walking towards her.  
"I didn't know I was supposed to," she answered, clutching the partially opened package against her burgundy jumper that she had paired with grey skinny jeans.  
"Wasn't it obvious?"  
"Um, was it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.  
"I had assumed the word _dinner_ would have sufficed," he said with a confused expression on his face, "I suppose I was wrong."  
"Very," she remarked with a smile.

They stood around awkwardly for a bit. Sherlock, with both hands in his trouser pockets, and Molly, still clutching the dress she never wanted to see again.

"Why have you given me this?" she asked, holding the package out.  
"Why did you throw it away?" he asked back.  
"I didn't _throw_ it away…I _gave—_ "  
"Either way, you didn't want to see it again so the choice of verb makes no difference," Sherlock interjected.

Molly sighed and walked over to the coffee table. She placed the dress on it and returned to where she was standing, near the door, near where she could walk out of the flat as quickly as possible.

"Why didn't you want to see it again?" asked Sherlock, rephrasing.  
"It didn't look good on me," Molly answered, shrugging nonchalantly.  
"I've never cared how you looked—"  
"Why is this about you now?" asked Molly, amused.

The detective paused, absorbing her words and trying hard to process her tone. After a long pause, he spoke again.

"You misunderstand."  
"Do I?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and, for a moment, lost his regular lightning wit. Words abandoned him as he sought to explain what he himself was struggling to come to grips with.

"You're right in the sense that… I _have_ made this about… _me_ ," he began.  
"When is it not?" she said with a soft chuckle.  
"But to elaborate…" he continued, his eyebrows furrowing as he strained to put his words together. "I was afraid."

Molly raised an eyebrow at his words. She walked over to sit herself down on his sofa, removing her bag and placing it neatly beside her.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked, looking up at him.

To her surprise, he came to join her on the sofa, absentmindedly moving her bag to sit beside her, as opposed to simply sitting on the side without the bag.

"I was afraid…" he began quietly, "That you didn't want to see me again either."

His words startled her, her wide eyes serving as evidence. It was her turn to be at a loss for words. Thankfully, the detective was slowly regaining his.

"I know what I did that evening," he confessed, "And I simply want to ask your forgiveness again."

Molly smiled her beautiful, gentle smile, warming the detective's heart as he gazed at her, awaiting her response.

"I'll always forgive you, you twit," she said with a laugh, reaching for the dress and placing it on her lap.  
"So…you'll wear the dress and let me take you out to dinner?" he asked.  
"Well, Sherlock, to be honest," she said, tapping her fingers on paper package, "I wasn't very fond of that dress to begin with. It was just something I had lying around."

Molly then shifted in her seat to turn to face Sherlock. When she did, she reached to touch his cheek as she leaned forward to kiss the other.

"But you, on the other hand," she whispered gently beside his ear, "I am very fond of."

At her words, the detective allowed himself to relax, quietly savouring the cool touch of her palm against his skin.

"So you have nothing to be afraid of," she continued, settling back to look at him properly.  
"That's nice to know," he remarked earnestly.

They both paused to grin at each other, the light slowly returning to their eyes as the rift between them began to close.

"So…dinner?" asked the detective.  
"Dinner," Molly replied, reaching for her bag but not before reaching for him to remind Sherlock Holmes once more that she would always be very, very fond of him.

 **END**


End file.
